


Vexatious searches of foreign shores

by Nemainofthewater



Category: Rusty Quill Gaming (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Archaeology, Don’t copy to another site, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Offscreen Violence, all of them - Freeform, all the tropes!!, dodgy artefacts, soul bonds
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-22
Updated: 2019-12-22
Packaged: 2021-02-24 17:00:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21721360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nemainofthewater/pseuds/Nemainofthewater
Summary: Edward and Tjelvar stumble across an unusual artefact in Hannibal's Tomb.
Relationships: Edward Keystone & Tjelvar Storsnasson
Comments: 6
Kudos: 44
Collections: Rusty Quill Secret Santa 2019





	Vexatious searches of foreign shores

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Arazsya](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arazsya/gifts).



“What,” Tjelvar says, “Was the one think that I asked you not to do?” His voice is as neutral as he can make it, though considering that he physically can’t step further than a few feet away from Edward without experiencing excruciating pain, he rather thinks that he’s got an excuse if he seems surly.

Edward hangs his head in shame and Tjelvar sighs. There’s no point in shouting at Edward: it won’t do anything apart from make both of them even worse. Still. This is a rather large cock up even by their standards, and he doesn’t even have Sir Bertrand MacGuffingham to blame it on. Not when the man had proved utterly incompetent to the point that he wasn’t identify one of Heracles’ Tasks and had spent a good twenty minutes trying to chat up the Queen of the Amazons. A classical education well spent. To be fair, not that he was inclined to grant either of them any leeway, Edward had passed his own task with flying colours, not through his knowledge of Ancient Greek history, but through his sheer joy and delight when it came to animals, no matter how monstrous they might look.

“He’s a good dog, Tjelvar,” he’d said once they’d both made it to the inside of Hannibal’s Tomb, “It’s not his fault he’s got three heads.” Tjelvar counts himself lucky that Cerberus had vanished because if not he has a sinking suspicion that their party would have grown by one (1) three-headed dog on the way back down the mountain. 

It had all been going extremely well until Edward had seen something shiny on the floor and despite Tjelvar’s shouted command not to touch it (though he was thinking more about the oil and salt damage Edward’s hands could do the artefact and less about the damage the artefact could do to them, more fool him) and Tjelvar had literally thrown himself forward to stop him. Colliding with Edward who had turned at exactly the wrong moment and causing both of them to fall upon the together. The artefact, a pair of entwined gold bands, had flown apart and fastened themselves on firmly onto each of their wrists, shredding through the layers of cold-weather gear they were wearing to sit, snug, against their skin.

Tjelvar shifts slightly and they both wince as the pain makes itself known once again. The twin bracelets, somehow pristine despite their long sleep within the tomb and the damage that Tjelvar had tried to inflict on them with the tip of one of his arrows, have no hinges or clasps of any kind. They must be magical. He scowls. _Magic_. Forget traps: archaeologists are prepared for those. It’s always the bloody magical items that trip him up. There’s a reason he’s loath to actually touch _anything_ on one of his digs without at least three Detect Magic spells and a layer of cloth between himself and the item in question.

“I don’t like this,” Edward says, poking mournfully at his own bracelet.

“Neither of us _like_ it, Eddie,” Tjelvar says, “But seeing as we’re stuck like this for the time being, we’ll just have to deal with it.”

He sighs. “After years of research and mockery, I finally find Hannibal’s Tomb, and what happens? I get sabotaged by two idiots. There’s no possible way that we’ll be able to proceed any further. Not when we don’t appear to be able to separate more than a few feet.”

Edward looks up at him, all wide eyes and trembling lips. Tjelvar scowls. He would have liked the opportunity to stay angry for at least a few more hours. It’s not Edward’s fault though. It’s the fault of whatever idiot tomb builder had decided that the floor, where any unsuspecting person could come across it, was the best place to store a magical artefact. Viciously, he hopes that whoever it was got fired. Explosively.

“I’m sorry Tjelvar,” Edward says, and to his credit he does sound it, “I didn’t mean to mess up your quest.”

“It’s not your fault,’ he says grudgingly, “But we do need to find a way out of here. And find some way to undo-” he raised his arm, “-this.”

Edward nods at him, resolute, and without thinking charges down the corridor toward the exit, presumably to hack at it with his Morningstar or something equally idiotic. That mosaic belongs in a museum! And preferably not in several pieces that Tjelvar knows, just knows, he will have to glue back together.

He doesn’t manage to voice his righteous anger, however, because that’s when the pain hits. It must be proportional to the distance travelled. There’s no other explanation. It feels like a thousand cursed knives are stabbing him in the head. He collapses, too affected to even scream, and he can hear the _thump_ of Edward doing the same in front of him.

The pain continues.

Slowly, painfully, inch by inch, Tjelvar drags himself forward. It takes an eternity, a jagged eternity, but he finally managed to reach out until he can feel warm skin. The clamouring in his head goes blissfully silent. Its abrupt absence is almost as painful as its presence. He whimpers.

Edward’s hand clutches convulsively at his own, crushing and grounding and _safe_ and before Tjelvar can react Ed has flung his arms around him and is hugging him close, his face buried against Tjelvar’s neck, hands still intertwined. 

Tjelvar freezes. He…can’t remember the last time someone had touched him. Not properly. Not when it came to more than the perfunctory handshakes and back slapping that are part and parcel of predominantly working with members of an Old Boys network. The majority of his recent experiences with physical contact have been having his hand crushed by Cambridge academics who look at his horns and his skin and feel like they have something to prove. 

There’s none of that quiet revulsion or condescension that characterise his day-to-day interactions. Instead Edward is clinging to him with unapologetic need, seeking comfort with the innocence of a child who has not yet learnt to shield his inner thoughts and feeling from the world.

Tjelvar pushes against Edwards arms but can’t shift him. He supposes that being Apollo’s favourite has its advantages. Other than the healing and the literal corona surrounding his hair, that is. Actually, come to think of it…

“Eddie,” Tjelvar says, “Is there anything that Apollo can do to get us out of this situation?”

Edward shakes his head. The movement jostles Tjelvar’s battered hat, dislodging it from his its usual perch. Under normal circumstance he would have immediately snatched it back up and returned it to its rightful place, but he doesn’t have the energy at the moment. Not when the entirety of his concentration is being taken up by the warmth of Ed’s body against his.

“It’s not evil,” Edward says.

“That’s disputable,” Tjelvar says, “But what I mean is, can you get us out of these? With your god’s magic?”

Edward tenses, pulling away imperceptibly. His cheeks are tinged red with shame.

“I don’t- I haven’t learnt any spells yet,” he admits in a low voice.

“Ah,” says Tjelvar. That would make sense: he isn’t entirely sure of the inner workings of the Cult of Apollo, but the fact that Edward had been sent out with a minder on his sacred pilgrimage speaks volumes.

“Well, never mind,” Tjelvar says, “I’m sure that we can find someone at the University in Prague. That or Cambridge, though Prague is closer, I believe.”

Hesitantly, he places a hand on Edward’s back and pats it.

“There, there,” he says. With his free hand he digs into a pocket, at an extremely awkward angle, and pulls out his handkerchief. Pushing Edward away slightly, he manages to offer him the handkerchief. 

Edward sniffs and accepts it, blowing into it.

“Thanks, Tjelvar,” he says.

“Ah, it was no problem.”

They lie in silence for a moment, then Tjelvar sits up. It’s quiet. Too quiet. He can’t hear the sound of Bertie’s grumbling anymore which is rather worrying considering that his inner monologue was all they could hear twenty minutes ago until Tjelvar had shouted at the other man to ‘shut up!’.

“We should go,” he says, “We can’t have been in the tomb more than a few hours: the sooner we set off, the sooner we can return to Albertville and from there arrange transport to Prague.” He hesitates. “I’m afraid that you’ll likely have to put off your pilgrimage,” he continues, “At least until we manage to remove these artefacts.”

Edward doesn’t say anything, just nods, uncommonly solemn. Tjelvar is struck with the sudden urge to comfort him, to reach out and touch his shoulder in quiet sympathy. He squashes the urge. Nothing good will come of it.

He clears his throat and stands abruptly, dislodging Edward in the process. The paladin’s face falls, a strange vulnerability evident in his eyes and the tilt of his head as he stares up from where he’s fallen on the floor, and then hardens. With a pang, Tjelvar realises from the placement of his hands, Edward had been reaching toward him.

“We should go,” Tjelvar repeats uselessly, trying not to look at Edward. He reaches down and grabs his hat, placing it firmly back onto his head. It’s only half because he wants to avoid looking into Edward’s eyes. He really does love his hat. He coughs uncomfortably. He can’t actually move anywhere, not without more pain, but he’s acutely aware of the uncomfortable silence permeating the tomb.

“Right,” Edward says, getting to his feet. He doesn’t meet Tjelvar’s eyes. “But…how do we get out? Do we need to go and find a statue again? I couldn’t see a statue anywhere, Tjelvar. I think it’s just the one. We should go outside.”

Edward doesn’t wait for a reply, striding forward toward the entrance of the tomb and forcing Tjelvar to hurry to catch up with him and stay in range.

“Eddie!” he splutters, “Eddie, will you slow down-”

Edward doesn’t. He also doesn’t stop, walking forward so quickly that Tjelvar is worried he’s going to brain himself on the door.

“Eddie, wait! -”

He reaches out, intending to pull him back-

-but stops. Because the doors open in front of them, the cold air wafting over them and temporarily replacing the stale air of the tomb with the fresh scent of pine trees. A shaft of sunlight penetrates the gloom like a sword and illuminating Edward in all of his glory.

There’s a flutter in Tjelvar’s stomach. He ignores it and tilts his hat forward, shielding his eyes from the bright glare of the sun on the snow.

“There’s no sign of Sir Bertrand,” he says, “But that probably for the best. It’s been a long day and I can only deal with one problem at a time.”

#

The walk down the mountain is in stony silence. There’s no more singing, no more inane chatter nor soliloquies about how great Apollo is. Tjelvar misses it. He even misses Sir Bertrand’s terrible flirting- well, maybe the situation isn’t that dire. The man is amazing at ignoring even the most blatant of undercurrents, though, and against all odds Tjelvar misses him. If only because he’s spent the majority of the walk asking himself whether he’s the arsehole in this situation and would appreciate someone to unequivocally occupy that position instead of him.

He grimaces as the promise of pain tugs against his soul, quickening his pace once again. He is not unused to the physical rigours that underpin a life spent in the field. He would go so far as to say that he’s held up much better than his colleagues: Howard Carter in particular springs to mind, and not just because he wrote a scathing rebuttal to Tjelvar’s most recent paper. Still. The point is that no matter how well he’s worked to keep himself in shape, he’s nothing compared to the stamina of a paladin of Apollo. Especially taking into account the sub-zero temperatures that gnaw at his flesh and drag at his limbs and that Edward doesn’t appear to notice. He jabs his numb fingers further into his armpits and represses a shiver.

His mind wanders.

He doesn’t want to think about the ridicule that he’s going to face once he returns to Cambridge. He had told no one of his expedition but the funding body, and the news of his disgrace was therefore sure to be all over Cambridge by now. He can imagine Carter’s letter even now, the man’s mocking voice drawling in his mind:

_Dearest Tjelvar_ (or some equally trite and mocking opening), _It is with the greatest of regrets that I learn that your expedition ended in disaster and embarrassment. How tragic. Nonetheless, I am sure you shall persevere. I await each day with bated breath the news of your upcoming expedition to the Library of Alexandria, or perhaps to Tir na nOg should the former prove too fanciful… No doubt you shall meet with equal success…_

In all honesty, he is rather looking forward to replying to Carter’s letter, perhaps sneak in a mocking reference to his equally fruitless search for his mystical great tomb hidden in Egypt’s sands. The amount of times Carter has been arrested by Meritocratic forces; it’s a miracle that he’s allowed to travel outside of England.

No, it’s the other reactions that he’s dreading. The sniggers behind his back, the hushed conversations that stop as soon as he draws near, the veiled references to his heritage and its effect on is disposition whenever he so much as stepped one toe out of line. He scowls. No. It won’t be like the other times, because this time he’s actually found it. He’s the first person to have discovered Hannibal’s Tomb and he will return once they’ve removed the artefacts. Return and prove to all his naysayers that he is far more than a naïve idiot chasing whispers and fairy-tales.

He stumbles and it is only partly due to the cold.

“Edward,” he pants out, “I don’t suppose we could stop for a while? I can’t-”

Edward stops, so abruptly that Tjelvar runs into his back.

“Ah, that’s- while I did suggest we stop, I meant it less in a literally stop right at this moment and more in a-”

“Shhh,” Edward says, turning to face Tjelvar. “Can you hear that?” His head is cocked to one side like an inquisitive puppy, though his face is grave. His Morningstar is tightly clasped in his hand and half drawn.

“What-?”

And then the pain hits. Tjelvar blinks up in confusion, because. Well. Eddie is right there, isn’t he? Staring straight at him. So why is he in pain…? The last thing he sees is Edward’s face, twisted in shock and horror, his mouth opened in an unheard cry.

#

Tjelvar wakes slowly. His back hurts, throbbing with a dull, steady ache. But there’s the smell of smoke in the air and he feels deliciously warm. As he groans and stretches, he realises that he can feel his toes for the first time in a good long while.

“Tjelvar!”

Edward’s voice cuts through the fog in his head and before he can process what’s happening, Tjelvar can feel strong arms around him, hugging him close. He groans again and the pressure vanishes.

“Are you alright, Tjelvar?” Edward says, “I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

Tjelvar, with gargantuan effort, pries his eyes open. And looks straight up into the (slightly blurry) visage of Edward Keystone. Taking a moment to look around and moving only his eyes to avoid aggravating the troupe of dwarves with pickaxes who have apparently taken up residence in his head, he can see that there is indeed a fire crackling merrily in front of him. It’s placed on top of appears to be an entire tree stump, slowly sinking into the wood. They aren’t in a tent: no, instead they’re resting in a large cave, made cosy by the fire and the numerous bedrolls that someone, presumably Edward, has laid out.

“What-” he croaks. He coughs and tries again. His mouth and throat are rougher than sandstone and he gratefully sips from the waterskin carefully held to his mouth. “What happened?”

“We got attacked,” Edward says, “There was a snow leopard and I couldn’t see it in time, and it ambushed you and I’m so sorry Tjelvar-”

“You’ve saved my life,” Tjelvar says, “At least, that’s what I assume. Though considering I’ve only just woken after having been attacked by another snow leopard, I could be wrong.”

He tries to sit up and the dull ache in his back explodes into an acute, fiery pain. He lowers himself back down immediately, groaning. Edward disappears from sight and a moment later Tjelvar can feel careful hands helping him to sit against a wall, his aching body cushioned by one of the bedrolls. 

“You shouldn’t move yet,” Eddie says, “I healed most of the damage, but I couldn’t get all of it. I can have another go at healing you tomorrow.” It looks like Edward is taking his inability to heal Tjelvar from a severe injury immediately and completely while simultaneously fighting off a snow leopard personally. How ludicrous.

“Once again, Edward, you _saved my life_. I’m not so helpless that I can’t put up with a little pain for a few hours.”

Tjelvar pauses. Speaking of pain…

“Wait,” he says, “Given our current situation, how did you manage to get to shelter? For that matter, how in Hermes’ name did you manage to gather enough wood for a fire at the same time?”

Eddie reappears before him, sitting down on the floor opposite Tjelvar and leaning back on his haunches. His face brightens at the question, though it still looks dim compared to the early days of their expedition.

“That was well easy,” Eddie says, “Once I managed to fight off the snow leopard and heal you, I just carried you over.”

Tjelvar pauses but Eddie doesn’t elaborate.

“And the fire?” Tjelvar prompts.

“Oh, yeah. I just found this big tree base bit and dragged it over. I’m well strong.”

Tjelvar is at a loss for words. While it’s true that Eddie could probably carry a tree by himself, the fact of the matter is that he would have had to have done it while in close proximity to Tjelvar himself. Which means… He’s struck with the sudden, absurd mental image of himself cradled in one of Eddie’s hands while the paladin drags an entire tree through the snow with his other. He dissolves into an entirely uncharacteristic fit of giggles.

Immediately, Eddie leans forward, alarmed. He raises a hand to Tjelvar’s forehead, eyebrows drawn in concentration.

“You’re not dying, are you?” he asks anxiously, “I don’t want you to die, Tjelvar-!”

“No, I’m not dying,” Tjelvar says, voice still breathy from the laughter, “I’m just- I’m just laughing. There’s nothing wrong.”

“Oh,” says Eddie, still hovering anxiously. “It’s just. I’ve never heard you laugh before.”

Tjelvar smiles at him, a proper smile. Not the carefully curated smile that avoids drawing attention to his scarred lips; a true, proper smile.

“I must admit that I haven’t had cause to,” he says.

Eddie frowns at him.

“You should,” he says solemnly, “Laughing is great.”

“You’re right,” Tjelvar says. He can still feel giddy light-headedness that might be due to blood loss but might equally be due to the sheer relief permeating his body that… well, that they’re both here. Alive. And that Eddie is talking to him again. “I suppose you’ll have to stick around and give me reason to laugh,” he says.

Carefully reaching up, he draws Eddie closer to him until they’re both sitting against the same wall, knees touching.

“You’ve been an enormous help, Edward, and I don’t know what I’d’ve done without you,” Tjelvar says.

Eddie looks up with that same worried look on his face. Tjelvar is struck by a sudden urge to smooth out the furrow in his brow.

“Even though I messed up your Quest?” Eddie says.

Tjelvar’s brows raise in surprise.

“Are you still worried about that?” he asks. “Edward. Eddie. These things happen. It wasn’t ideal, that’s true, and I admit that I was quite cross at the time-” Eddie looks even more worried and Tjelvar hurries to continue, “-but it wasn’t your fault. The number of times that some poor undergraduate has been cursed with an improperly filed artefact- well. It’s a lot, I can tell you that.”

He gentles his voice.

“Now I know where it is,” Tjelvar says, “I can always return to Hannibal’s Tomb. In any case, don’t forget that you’re the reason that I was able to find it in the first place. I’m ashamed to say that I did, and I hope that you can forgive me. For making you feel like a burden, or stupid.”

“I am stupid though,” Eddie says, and the worst thing about it is that he sounds entirely matter of fact.

“You’re not,” Tjelvar replies immediately, “And you deserve much better than to be made to think so.”

Reaching over he takes Eddie’s hand. “In fact,” he continues, “There is no one who I’d rather have by my side. Cursed artefacts or no cursed artefacts. And I hope that you’ll do me the honour of accompanying me back to the Alps to properly excavate the Tomb once we’ve sorted our problem. For now, though. I think we had better sleep. Regain our strength. It’ll all be better in the morning.”

Tjelvar squeezes his hand and then settles himself more comfortably against the cave wall. Despite the fact he’s just woken up, he’s feeling incredibly tired. And he can’t imagine that Eddie’s feeling much better.

He sits there for a few moments; eyes closed and starts humming. Nothing magical, just a lullaby that his mother used to croon to him when he was young and too full of energy to sleep. He hasn’t heard the melody- gods, since before he went off to University which must have been at least five years or so. Slowly, imperceptibly he can feel Eddie relax beside him. He pays him no notice, just continues humming. Finally, after ten minutes or so he opens his eyes again to check on Eddie. His head is tipped back and his mouth is slightly open. There’s a line of drool running down the side of his mouth. He’s sound asleep.

“Good night, Eddie,” he whispers, “Sweet dreams.”

**Author's Note:**

> I am on Tumblr as [Nemainofthewater ](https://nemainofthewater.tumblr.com)


End file.
